In response to the recent post about "the Lobster" I wanted to share a lovely poem by Galway Kinnell called "The Fly."
I've just brushed
off my face keeps buzzing
about me, flesh-
starved for the soul.
One day I may learn to suffer
his mizzling, sporadic stroll over eyelid or cheek,
even hear my own singing
in his burnt song.
The bee is the fleur-de-lys in the flesh.
She has a tuft of the sun on her back.
She brings sexual love to the narcissus flower.
She sings of fulfillment only
and stings and dies, and
everything she ever touches
is opening, opening.
And yet we say our last goodbye
to the fly last,
the flesh-fly last,
the absolute last,
the naked dirty reality of him last.